


Family Traits

by skysonfire



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), Castlevania Netflix
Genre: Anime, Bathtub Sex, Castlevania - Freeform, Dracula - Freeform, F/M, Fingering, Mild S&M, One Shot, Smut with a Story, Sypha, belmont - Freeform, classy smut, like super mild, netflix, romania - Freeform, what happens after season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 07:23:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16572191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skysonfire/pseuds/skysonfire
Summary: Following their separation from Alucard, Trevor and Sypha strike out on their own, tackling the wilds of the Wallachian countryside. Along the way, they stop for a night at a tavern where ale and bathwater flow.





	Family Traits

The tavern on the outskirts of Rușii de Vede is a warm and welcome refuge, even in its dingy modesty. There's a distinct scent that lingers in the air — something like ale soaking into old wood. A fire crackles eagerly in the stone hearth in the center of the tavern, and there's a faint aroma of baking bread dancing into the main room from somewhere beyond; candles burn on the bar, on the mismatched tables, and in lanterns in the corners. There's a sensation within that suggests an easy heart. Maybe they would have a calm night, free from fear, violence, and the endless cold dark of the winter countryside.

Trevor presents himself at the bar, shaking his hair and shoulders, shedding himself of melted snow.

"What’ll ya have, lord?" The barkeep is a worn over husk of a woman with stringy hair and a sallow tinge. Her teeth mimic the stain of the bar's finish, but her eyes are bright, hopeful, and attentive. Sypha smiles at the way she turns her hip to Trevor, because that's the way women do when he's around. 

"Ale. Three tankards," he requests. "And a room," he adds. "If you have one."

Sypha assumes a seat at a wooden high back chair close to the bar. The seat's surface is smooth and worn — comfortable from the sliding of hundreds of passers through the little town.

The barkeep returns with Trevor's tankards. She sets them on the tacky surface and leans toward him.

"We'ave a room. Will'ya be stayin' alone, then?" She musters her best upturned look, demonstrating her willingness to mate.

Trevor collects the handles of the tankards around the fingers of his left hand and points to where Sypha is sitting. The barkeep looks beyond his outstretched arm and scowls, almost audibly, before handing him a large bronze key.

"Up the stairs and to the right; it's the only suite in the house."

Trevor tosses her ample coinage from his purse and makes his way to the table that Sypha has secured, but Sypha’s attention is already far off as her gaze loiters out the windows, watching far beyond the dark and snow of a world on fire. Trevor considers that she looks like longing, and something under his tunic beats hard at the way her face is changed by candlelight in this stopover where they can finally be restful after so many nights in gutted places and under looming trees covered in wet.

"Three tankards?" Sypha asks, but her tone suggests that she already understands.

"I know you're an experienced drinker, Sypha, and I thought you'd appreciate the gesture." He jokes, of course, and she smiles despite herself because there’s a certain charm about him when he’s dry and snarky.

"Is sarcasm a Belmont family trait?" Sypha asks, accepting one of the tankards of ale with two hands.

"Well," Trevor considers, "I suppose. We've always been an ironic bunch — literally laughing in the face of death and all that. If I can't joke about ale, then ..." He interrupts himself as he encourages the first of two tankards to his mouth.

He ruminates on her face as he sips, dragging his eyes across the sparkling majesty of her blue gaze, the pale petal flesh of her cheek, the plush sheen of her bottom lip. Impulsively, his hand moves toward her across the table, but he halts himself and reaches behind his shoulder to squeeze at a bit of tension.

Sypha drinks from the amber pool of ale as she contemplates his movements. She feels warm and restless — uncomfortable. Something about their exchange is frustrating, and it's never felt quite this way.

"Did she say suite?" Sypha queries, referencing Trevor's conversation with the barkeep.

"Yeah," Trevor replies.

"Do you think there's a bath up there?" She continues.

"It's probably extra."

She kicks him under the table and he chortles, self-amused.

"Head up; I'll ask," he says, pushing his chair out and standing.

Sypha rights herself quickly, accepts the key to the suite, and makes her way toward the broad staircase. Before her assent to the suite, she looks back over her shoulder to Trevor once more and ponders the spread of his shoulders, the solid loom of his stance, the shaggy touch of his hair, and the bold veins of his hands, giving way to worn, lithe fingers. She wonders for the first time how many women he's touched with those hands, and with the thought, something in her body trembles like aggravation, like jealousy.

She shakes her head, secures her hand on her tankard, and makes her way up the stairs.

The key turns easily in the lock and Sypha pushes open the heavy wooden door. The suite is simple and lovely. A large canopy bed acts as the bedroom’s centerpiece, across from which is an appointed hearth complete with a burning fire. There is a small table and a pair of chairs near the window in the corner, and there are dried flowers and herbs on the nightstands. A wreath of garlic is draped over the bed's footboard.

Across the room is doorway that leads to the bath where another small fire burns. In the center of the room is a fairly large tub, steaming with fresh water, and a table on top of which dried stalks of lavender, a bottle of oil, a candle, and a towel are carefully perched. 

Both rooms smell of clove, citrus, cotton, herbs, and musk — everything that could possibly appeal to the senses after a long journey on the road. Sypha is thrilled.

She carefully removes her tunic, glancing behind her to ensure that Trevor hasn't entered the room, and sheds the remainder of her attire. She opens the bottle of oil and adds a few aromatic touches to the bathwater before stepping over the side and sinking within. The water is exceptionally hot – on the verge of scalding – and her skin takes up color to a rosy pink. She exhales deeply as someone downstairs fingers a lute.

Sypha closes her eyes as she hears Trevor enter the bedroom and close and lock the door behind him.

"Sypha?" She hears him ask.

"In here," she calls, as she encourages the water up onto her shoulders and neck.

"You didn't waste any time, I see." Trevor’s shadow hovers in the doorway.

"The tub is big and it's dark. You should get in while the water is hot." Sypha's voice is stoic and quiet, and for the first time in a long time Trevor doesn't know what to do.

He is silent for a long interval, but he decides that she's right. He turns his back to Sypha and faces the hearth as he sheds his shoes, tunic, and trousers. He pauses once more and takes a breath, moving a step toward the tub.

Sypha, growing concerned at his delay, turns in his direction. "Trev-," but she's interrupted by the sight of him in the firefight, the sinewy cut of abdomen and biceps, the jut of his hip bones, the mass of his legs. She looks away just as her eyes reach his hips, and he slides into the bath with the understanding that she was watching him for a moment too long, with eyes too wide.

"Geez, Trevor. Next time warn me!" She exclaims with acted frustration, but he's not totally listening. He's caught up in the frenzy of his thoughts and the gallop of his pulse.

There's a quiet moment between the two, but the air is thick with energy and anxiety. Trevor spies the bottle of dried lavender on the table behind Sypha's position and he moves forward toward her, bringing his body close and reaching his arm over her shoulder to grab a few sprigs. He feels her breath on his chest.

He assumes position immediately before her and studies the lavender.

"I never quite understood this," he says.

Sypha swallows back a lump in her throat. "It's meant to scent the water and relax the muscles," she replies, her tone exceptionally low.

Trevor lifts his gaze from the stalk of herbs and arrests her eyes. The pair lingers there for a breath before Trevor touches the sprig to Sypha's cheek, running it slowly down the length of her neck, forcing from her a seemingly involuntary stretch. She leans her head back and narrows her eyes. He brings the lavender to the hollow of her throat and then trails it across her collarbone before discarding it in the water. Sypha's jaw slacks just slightly and discarding care, Trevor rushes her, placing his hand on her throat where the herb had been, and touching his lips under her ear, pushing at the delicate flesh. She exhales audibly and her body relaxes. As it does, Trevor wraps his right forearm under the small of her back and lifts her torso from the water. Sypha's nipples harden as they are met by the cool of the room's night air, and he covers them with his mouth, running his tongue over their puckered surface, and plunging his left hand between her legs to gently part the moistened folds of her sex.

He pets her easily and she spreads herself for him, her eyes meeting his face. He brings his lips to her cheek and eases his fingers along the cut of her, seeking out the touch he knows she'll enjoy most.

Sypha grapples at Trevor’s forearm and brings her hand over his own, guiding his fingers. Her breathy articulation graduates into a moan as he circles her. Trevor feels himself aching for her slick warmth. He worries slightly at his bottom lip as he watches the changes in her face, the way her brow knits and her mouth begs. Sypha beckons her hips toward him.

“That’s it,” he whispers, encouraging her on. 

He guides himself to her opening and pushes the head of his desire inside slowly, waiting for her lead. 

"Trevor, I've never ..." But he covers her mouth with his own and rolls his tongue over and inside of her, breathing her in deeply through his nose. It's a feat for him to be gentle — he wants to take her with everything he has. He wants to pump her furiously and make her scream into the black night, but he remains an easy burn because he knows what she's going to say.

Sypha stands then, her worked, pink body glistening with the bath's cascading waters. Trevor raises his eyes to her and grips the underside of her knee, placing his lips on her thigh.

"The water's getting cold," she says, and he stands to join her, drawing her close, kissing her with a severe expression that suggests more than just wanting.

"Let me bring you to bed then," he murmurs as she touches her palm over his throbbing grip. He smirks at her touch and she blushes.

"To sleep, of course," he whispers, his voice close on the shell of her ear.

"Is seduction a Belmont family trait?" Sypha teases, touching back a strand of his wild hair.

He offers his hand to her so that she may step safely over the lip of the tub, but the oil has done its dangerous work and they both slip. Sypha disintegrates into laughter and Trevor can’t help but to grin at the girlish tone of her joy as it echoes throughout the suite.

"Decidedly not," he replies. “Decidedly not.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is my first Castlevania-inspired piece and I'm happy ... I think. I tried to really capture the character traits of both Trevor and Sypha, although the work is a bit more Trevor-focused. This work is a one shot, but I may offer future installments. Please let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!


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